Grow Up
by Sakeke
Summary: Remember when crossing the street: look both ways and watch out for big, fat, Scarecrow-shaped trucks.


**Author's Note:** Dorothy belongs to me.  
Ghoul, Scarecrow, and others belong to DC and WB.  
More info at the Deviant Art deviation: .com/art/Grow-Up-Pathetic-Fool-127698468  
This may or may not be part of a series. In order to keep it...in order...or something...I'll probably just put them all in chapters or something.

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Dorothy bit her lip to keep it from quivering. "It hurts, Ghoul, it hurts…" she whimpered. It wasn't like her; out of the four years I've known her, I've had to have heard her whimper or whine like this only a handful of times.

"Hang on, just hold still."

"Well _fuck_, Ghoul! Do you know how fucking hard it is to stay fucking still when you've got a bullet in your neck and someone's stabbing you t' get it out!?"

I was going to retort, but I held my tongue. She always swore like a sailor when she was stressed, I knew that. Not only was she stressed now, but she was right. Stupid people do stupid things. Today, a stupid person decided to try to play hero and take on our band of Jokerz. That stupid person brought a gun, and shot another stupid person…who has a big mouth.

"First of all, Miss Atkinson, this is not your neck, it's your shoulder, and second of all, I'm not stabbing you, I'm trying to find your bullet." I responded, attempting in vain to perk her spirits up a bit with a smile. She didn't look at me, but stared blankly into space, as if focusing on something caused her even more pain than her flesh wound.

My smile faded quickly and I went back to searching for that bullet. Every so often, a small whimper would escape her lips, no matter how hard she tried to keep it inside. As well as Dorothy was at hiding her pain, her distress was evident; I almost felt sorry for her, if it wasn't for the fact that it was her own fault that she was shot, I would have.

"Is she alright?"

I turned. The Deeds were peeping through the door. They had taken off their costumes, wigs and everything, but still had traces of makeup on their worried faces.

"I can't find the bullet." I said, shaking my head and moving away from Dorothy. I could see her looking at me from the corner of my eye, but I didn't turn to meet her eyes, just focused on the Dee Dees. It wasn't that I didn't want to; I just couldn't bring myself to look her in the eye.

The two looked at each other, then looked back at me. I _swear_ those two could communicate telepathically.

"I think we should bring her to the hospital." One of the Deeds said. I could never tell which one was which, but I think that one was Delia.

"What!?" Dorothy exclaimed, hopping off my bed, then almost immediately cringed in pain. "Ow…"

"If you don't get help, you could die!" said the other Dee Dee.

"Yeah, and if I go to the hospital, I'll go to jail! I'm not a kid anymore! No more lineages for me! I can't-" she stopped. Before that, I had kept my eyes locked on the Deeds, to avoid looking at Dorothy…and I'm not sure if it was instinct, but just as I was turning my head to face her, she began to fall.

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"Whuh…where...am I?" It was dark—no; "dark" doesn't suffice it enough. Everything was black. I couldn't see _anything_. If I had enough strength, I would have put my hand in front of my face, but I couldn't move.

"Pitiful."

"Huh?" I looked up…behind…me. I couldn't really tell. One moment, I was lying-or at least I think I was-on the ground feeling like I had just run fifty miles hopping on one foot carrying a few hippopotamuses…and now, I was feeling…refreshed, and I think I was standing up.

"I said, 'pitiful'. As in, '_you_ are pitiful. Disgraceful, pathetic, inadequate, insignificant—"

"Alright! I get it, I get it!" I frowned, waving my hand at the voice. "You think I'm lame. So? Why should I care what you say?"

"Didn't talking back get you shot in the first place? You are, indeed—oh, what do they call it nowadays? A twip?"

I scoffed. "Ha, said the disembodied voice."

It sighed exasperatedly. "Turn around, moron."

I twirled around, and my jaw dropped. Turns out, it wasn't dark; I could see him quite clearly, actually, it was just our surroundings that were black...but with his black attire, it almost looked like he was a floating body with arms and stuff.

Tried to speak…I failed. Nothing would come out of my mouth.

He stood there, waiting for me to respond…but apparently, he took my astonishment as response enough, and took a few steps towards me.

It was him. I couldn't believe it. He looked legit, I mean, I've seen pictures and information cubes…lots of them, actually. I've had to have seen his face—or rather; his mask—more than any other person in Gotham, give or take a Batman, if the original was alive.

He was what my whole obsession revolved around, my alias, my job…my _life_. He was the Scarecrow. Impossible, he was dead.

"Well, aren't you going to say something, Miss Atkinson?" he sounded almost sarcastic.

"…Am I dead?"

The words flew out of my mouth before I had a chance to decide whether to say them or not. He chuckled.

"Almost, not quite." He stated. I stared at him in a daze, but still somehow managed to get my wandering thoughts into comprehensible words and say them.

"Whado ya mean?" Well, _mostly_ comprehensible words.

"That's not important right now. Right now, you need to be worrying about what decision you are going to make."

I straightened. What was he talking about? Decision…what, do live or die?

"What are you on about, Jon?"

He scowled. "Do not call me 'Jon'. I am _Scarecrow_, understand?"

I nodded quickly. "And to think, being your…'_idol_', and all, you'd think you would speak to me in a more formal way."

"Uh…ye-yes sir-r…sor-sorry. I was n-never taught man-man…" I paused, trying to get a hold on my speech. What was with the stuttering? I never used to do that before.

"Manners." He finished. "Yes, I know. In fact, I'm quite certain you were never really taught anything, and if you were, you didn't retain any of it. You're a dense girl, Dorothy." He said matter-of-factly.

I looked down at my feet and held my hands behind my back, ashamed.

"You dropped out of school when you were sixteen—"

"I was almost-almost s-seventeen!" I interrupted. He shot a glare at me and I shrunk back to my previous state.

"That's not the point, Dorothy. The point_ is_…you dropped out of school." He crossed his arms. "You're a disgrace. Calling yourself a follower of the Scarecrow-HA!" he shouted, causing me to jump.

"Did you seriously think…that without a proper education, you could ever amount up to me? You don't deserve to dabble in my work. You don't deserve _anything_."

I shrugged slightly and nodded. What was I supposed to say? He was right…it wasn't until now that I realized that. I could never get into college, along with my lack of education and my record; they wouldn't let me within a hundred feet of one.

"You might as well die on the operating table now."

I tilted my head upward, just so I could barely see him, but then raised my head fully and stared him in the eye.

"But…I tried, didn't I? Not the in-depth psychology _you'd _want, of course…but I know how people basically act, sorta. They're scared of being killed or hurt or stuff. They're scared of rape and strangers, knives, guns, hoodlums, weird people…they're scared of a lot of stuff!" I tried to explain. "I know how to put that fear into them."

"How? By screaming like a banshee and running at them like a madman?"

I could tell he was making fun of me…that mask didn't hide anything…and neither did mine. I knew I looked like a fool…and incompetent, ignorant fool.

"Well…yeah. I mean, it scares 'em, right?"

"What happens when it doesn't? What do you do when they don't run?"

I shrugged nonchalantly. "I tackle 'em, scratch 'em…anything to make them know that you mean business, that you don't back down when they hold their ground."

"Something you've done on many occasions, I'm guessing. What about when they fight back—and they knock you down? Beat you?"

"I wouldn't let them."  
"But what if they _did_, hmm? What if you went up against someone who has little to fear?"

I paused and thought for a moment. I never did really have a plan for anything.

"Wing it, am I right?"

I smiled sheepishly and nodded, my smile faded as soon as I saw him shake his head in disappointment.

"But you have to admit, it's been working so far…" I tried to point out.

"Not against the Batman."

"That's what claws and a hatchet are for."

"And what happens when you lose them? He snaps your claws, takes away your hatchet. What will you do _then_, hmm?"

"Fear toxin."

"You don't know how to _make_ fear toxin."

"True, but I've been working on it. I just have yet to find a site on the web that gives me a recipe."

He glared at me irrelatively.

"It was a joke."

"Your humor does not amuse me, Dorothy."

"Well, since you're here, _you_ can tell me how to make some!"

"No."

"What!? Hay, _you're_ the one complaining about me being insufficient and disappointing!"

"I refuse to leave my legacy in the hands of a child."

"Uh, hello!? I'm _eighteen_ now!" I stamped my foot angrily. "I'm not a kid!"

"Adulthood is not judged by age, Dorothy."

"Psh, yes it is!"

He sighed exasperatedly. "_Maturity_, Miss Atkinson, _maturity_. You could have someone who is legally an adult, but they have the mentality of a child. You, Dorothy, are one of them."

Maturity. I knew exactly what he was talking about. I was still acting like how I was when I was fourteen or fifteen, which was more or less like a ten-year-old. Slag, I even still threw tantrums sometimes!

"You need to grow up."

Then it hit me. Hit me hard. Like a truck. A big, fat, scarecrow-shaped truck.

It was then that I knew what I had to do. And he knew what I had to do to.

Right then and there…the Dorothy Atkinson everybody knew…was dead.


End file.
